


Progeny

by saberteeth



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: And Nero Hatched From It!, Eggpreg, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Mild Gore, Mpreg, Vergil Has a Dick and a Pussy, Vergil Laid This Egg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saberteeth/pseuds/saberteeth
Summary: It's hard to hang onto the edges of lucidity the more and more the thing grows inside of him. He can only wish another were here.
Relationships: Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 147





	Progeny

**Author's Note:**

> head EMPTY thoughts VERGIL GREGNANCY
> 
> verb tenses switch rapidly in this. i intended to clean that up but it kind of worked better this way? idk lol but enjoy regardless
> 
>  **warning:** vergil assumes at one point, that the egg isn't viable/essentially is a stillborn. he's wrong and that's immediately apparent afterward...but i don't want to upset anyone! he also thinks about dante sexually, but there's no actual incest in this fic (but no worries. i am working on some fics with very explicit incest ahaha)
> 
> **ETA!!!** THIS FIC NOW HAS [AMAZING ART!!](https://twitter.com/bizzaroren/status/1270062841840775169?s=20) Thank you so much to @bizzaroren over on Twitter 🥺❤️

Vergil had long since taught himself to shed any feelings that were not useful. Compassion, fear, enjoyment, lust: these things made him weak. Anger, rage, disgust, pride: these things made him strong, and these were the things he carried with him.

Now, he carried something tangible, too.

Alone and half-starved in an alleyway in the dregs of night, he let his nose carry himself to the nearest source of food. Of blood. Of guts.

As his stomach grew, so dwindled his moments of lucidity. He wished he weren’t so lucid now. It was easier to be at peace with the things he had to do to feed his growing baby when he wasn’t, but for now, he was simply a slave to the parasite’s wants. He felt feral, like a wild animal, and every time he moved it was as if he were watching himself take the action rather than moving himself. The smell pulled him forward like a moth to flame, to a demon lurking around the corner, so easy for him to grab, and kill, and eat.

It didn’t even do him the dignity of being a high-level demon, something worthy of him and his progeny. Just a nest of empusas, but still, he unsheathed his sword, quickly returning his other hand to cradle his stomach in protection, finishing them off before diving into the guts with a gusto he was ashamed of.

He couldn’t bring himself to care how he looked in these moments. And that was the crux of the thing: he had lost his pride. He had lost his pride to the thing in his stomach, crying out for blood,  _ more. _ He tore into the exoskeleton of the nearest one with his teeth, fangs ripping skeleton from flesh with ease. The flesh beneath rippled apart and he plunged a hand in to take  _ more, _ to get  _ more, _ anything to shove in his mouth and sate the gnawing hunger within him.

He could feel the liquid drip down his face and onto his neck but he paid it no mind, not now, not when his baby is greedily taking in everything he sends down his throat. It’s not just blood: it’s guts and sweat and spit and any other shit that comes out of a demon carcass. He took his fill and discarded the corpse, throwing it across the alley before moving onto the next: teeth, hands, guts, mouth, moving at a rapid pace that he has no control over. He could feel and hear the crunch beneath his teeth but it played in the back of his mind as if he were listening to this play out on a cassette player attached to a very old pair of headphones.

It’s easier that way: to remove himself from the actual. He’d been living that way since he was 8 years old. Some 10 years later, the strategy has only improved.

When he is finally full, and the blood and guts and gore coat his hands as well along with his mouth, he retreats.

He’s been lucky enough to find an abandoned studio that has stayed relatively quiet. Not that it would matter if it hadn’t. He’s capable. It’s just more nourishment for the child.

The child. His stomach feels heavier than usual now, weighed down with fullness in more ways than one.

No one had ever taught Vergil about demon breeding, but he had done his research. Had done it long before he’d ever thought he’d need it. Libraries had been a source of comfort to him, when he had been young, and the more he could get his hands on about his heritage, the better.

However, he certainly hadn’t ever expected this to apply to  _ him. _

Maybe his brother, if he were alive. In another world,  _ he _ would have been the one to carry, Vergil would have provided the warmth and care and nourishment and the child would be healthy and well-cared for. If he were here. But he wasn’t: he was dead, probably, like everyone who had ever cared for him, or once did. He hadn’t ever been the favored child, after all. That fell to the other.

But Vergil wouldn’t allow himself to think that name, not now, not while he was still hearing and seeing and smelling things here, on this plane. He had already allowed himself too much: anger was an emotion worth keeping, but not when coupled with self-pity.

In the corner of the studio was a pile of blankets he’d hoarded, coarse and rough or threadbare and too-soft, all of them discarded from previous owners, but suitable enough for him and for the child. They were almost like a nest, if he pulled his coat over himself, and positioned them just so, and curled his head and shoulders down and pulled his legs up and cocooned around his stomach.

From this angle, the pile of blankets in front of him could almost be something else. Could almost be someone’s back.

* * *

The days wore on. His stomach grew. Surely any moment now, this would all be over. His moments of lucidity were few and far between, now, as if his body knew it was missing its mate that his brain refused to acknowledge. He inched more toward completely feral with every bit his stomach expanded.

He moved from corner to corner of whatever city he was in, not daring to stay in one place for too long, blankets in tow, guts dripping down his front. Pride was a thing of the past, this far in: all his demon wanted to do now was  _ protect. _

He pressed himself to the corner of the room, back to the wall so he could see all entry points, his weapon a familiar hum by his side. His blankets, his clothes, a wall around him. One hand on his stomach, and he let the other slowly drift downward, tugging on his dick, whimpering softly with the pleasure it brought him. It was only in these desperate moments that he was barely tethered to the world around him that he let himself think the name.

As a child, his father had told them that twins were something to be celebrated. Something to be rejoiced, amongst their kind, as they never had to search for a mate. They were perfectly matched, meant to stay by each other's side and bring forth new life into the world. But then all of that had been pulled away from him, and there was no new life. There was only death.

But now there was a life growing inside of him. In these desperate moments, in the dark, he could allow himself a small luxury.

Lust was not an emotion he carried, and his current situation was not a result of it. Nor was it the result of love. It was the result of nothing but a fleeting moment of desperation. But in these moments, in these small, terrible, wonderful moments, it could be something else.

“Dante,” he whispered, pulling the blankets closer to himself, before continuing to pull at his cock, voice so low that no one else could hear him if they tried. “It’s yours, and it’s going to be beautiful.”

* * *

It’s an egg.

Logically, he knew that was what was coming, but it didn’t stop the scream that was pulled from his throat as his pussy nearly tore itself apart getting it out of him. He flickered between forms involuntarily. Just like the mixture that had been coating his mouth and hands for months now as he fed his greedy child, blood and sweat and spunk coated his thighs. For a moment, if he closed his eyes and tilted his head right, he could feel Dante’s hands. They were coaxing him, one hand on his shoulder to help him relax, another guiding the egg out of where it had been kept safe for so long. He was wet and slick and his eyes dripped as he scrunched them shut, because Vergil did not show fear, but perhaps, if Dante were there to thumb the wetness away, he could, just for a moment.

* * *

He curls around the egg like he had curled around his stomach for all those months, gathering every bit of warmth he can to act as an incubator. The lack of weight in his stomach feels as heavy and unnatural as the lack of mate: he should be here, he should  _ be here; _ Vergil shouldn’t be relying on ratty clothes and stolen blankets, there should be  _ body heat, _ a warm body, a  _ real body, _ here to help him, to nurture, to lessen the load.

His mate was always the better twin. More loved. He’s sure their offspring would feel the same.

The lack of hunger is an eerie feeling, when it had been pulling at the back of his mind for so long, like a dry spot in his throat no amount of clearing or liquid could heal. But the parasite is out of him now, and it gives instead of takes.

It gives him something to live for, something to  _ harness power _ for. He can hold on. For that.

* * *

It’s supposed to hatch in a week. It doesn’t.

“Not viable,” he murmurs, the cool grey shell soft beneath his hands. Of course he didn’t  _ make _ anything. He didn’t create  _ anything. _ All Vergil does is destroy. That’s all his hands are meant for, all his body is meant for; destruction, rage,  _ power. _ Never something as weak-minded as compassion, and love. That had left with the flames that licked through the hallways of his childhood home.

So he leaves, and he leaves the offspring that was never his, that was never Dante’s, that he never intended to have. It doesn’t matter. It’s not viable.

* * *

By the time the screaming baby is heard, the egg has shattered and sits around him in unrecognizable remains. The head of the orphanage thinks nothing of it, nothing more than the usual garbage found in the alleyway as she takes the child into her arms, squinting in the dusky night to see if the white hair and bright blue eyes she sees are real, and not a figment of the imagination.

The child is bright, but there is a darkness around him.

“Nero,” she says, “that’s fitting.”

* * *

Vergil does not mourn. That would be an emotion not worth feeling.

That is what he tells himself.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed, kudos & comments appreciated if you did :*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blood Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501192) by [saberteeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saberteeth/pseuds/saberteeth)




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